


Soup and Stories

by bottledspirits



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledspirits/pseuds/bottledspirits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumplestiltskin harasses Belle for attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soup and Stories

**Author's Note:**

> I did it, guys. I wrote soup fic.

“Belle!” Rumplestiltskin roared, his voice sounding oddly hoarse as it echoed through the halls of the Dark Castle.

“I’m coming!” Belle called back impatiently. He’d called her three times in the last two minutes. She couldn’t imagine what had him so preoccupied that he eschewed his normal habit of appearing behind her when she was preoccupied. It might have been preferable to this insistent nagging.

She heard him call for her yet again as she rounded a corner, following the sound of his voice, and froze. Belle remembered this corridor from her explorations of the castle. There was only one door, an ominous construct of solid oak and wrought iron at the far end of the passage, and it had always been locked when she tried it. Was this some test?

“ _Belle!_ ” came the shrill cry from behind the door.

The urgency in his voice made her jump. Belle hurried down the corridor, absently wondering how sound could carry through that thick door. She hesitated only a moment before taking hold of the handle and pushing her way inside.

A familiar scent struck her before she had even crossed the threshold, making her pause. She was not quite sure where she remembered the smell from. Belle glanced around the door curiously. There was a distinct lack of the ornate furnishings that could be seen around the rest of the castle. Belle could make out a wardrobe, hardly used if the thick layer of dust was any indication – or rather, she thought, hardly  _cleaned_ , for there was a set of distinct finger-smudges in the grime around the handles. She spotted a familiar pair of boots where someone had left them in a messy heap on the floor.

“Belle,” she heard a croak and gave a guilty start. This was not the time to be exploring.

She turned and found a strange scene – the Dark One, garbed in one of his silk shirts, sitting in a plain four-poster bed piled high with overstuffed pillows. He looked utterly miserable, staring at her with a piteous gaze she would have expected to see on a half-drowned cat. There was something so comical about the sight that Belle had to bite back a grin.

He made as if to say something, but ended up sneezing instead. Belle swore she could feel the room shake.

She left the door open to go to his side.

“Are you ill?” she asked.

“Yes,” Rumplestiltskin said petulantly. That gave her pause.

"I’ve never heard of the Dark One getting a cold," Belle said, turning her head to regard him carefully.

He said nothing. He did not look at her, and seemed to be intent on fishing around the bedclothes for something – a handkerchief, Belle realized. She sat on the edge of the bed and took her own handkerchief from her pocket.

“Here,” she said, proffering the dainty square of cloth.

Rumplestiltskin glanced at it. His gazed moved slowly from the cloth to her face, and he was looking at her as if she’d done something miraculous, rather than handing him her handkerchief.

“Go on,” she said after a moment of silence, flapping the thing in his face.

He seemed startled by the movement, but took the handkerchief nonetheless, to her relief. Before he used it, he turned it over in his hand, examining a pattern of hand-stitched daisies in one corner. Belle began to feel a tad uneasy. It was made of plain cotton she’d decorated herself, nothing like the finery she’d seen in the castle. Would he be offended that she offered him such a humble thing?

 But her fears were allayed the next moment when he mumbled his thanks and blew his nose with it. She watched as he folded it neatly, rubbing a finger across the embroidery before holding it out to her.

“Oh, no,” she said, waving it away. When his face fell, she added, “You might need it again.”

“I have others,” Rumplestiltskin answered, gesturing vaguely at the room behind him. Belle glanced at the other side of the bed and saw at least half a dozen handkerchiefs littering the bedside table. She snorted.

“Well, in that case,” she said, taking the square with a delicate gesture, “I would hate for you to lose it.”

Rumplestiltskin looked affronted.

“You don’t trust me?” he asked, sounding far too innocent.

“Not a whit,” Belle said, tucking the handkerchief in her pocket again. She looked up with a smile playing at her lips and found him grinning impishly at her. It was good to see him acting more like his usual self.

The conversation trailed off. They stared at each other as the moment protracted into silence. Belle shifted on the bed and folded her hands in her lap, not noticing the way Rumplestiltskin’s eyes followed them.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Belle asked.

Her voice startled him, causing his gaze to snap back to her face. Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth to speak, but his stomach answered for him, rumbling loudly. Belle grinned.

“Hungry?” she asked, her eyes sparkling. Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes and nodded.

Belle stood from the bed and smoothed her skirt. Rumplestiltskin sat up and watched her with something like anxiety.

“I’ll make you something,” she promised, turning away.

“Wait,” Rumplestiltskin said hoarsely, putting out a hand near her fluttering skirt, though he dared not touch.

Belle turned and looked at him with raised eyebrows. Rumplestiltskin sank back into his pillow, looking relieved. Under her curious gaze he raised one hand and, with a wave, a silver tray appeared on the bed.  Belle blinked at it. There was a single bowl and spoon, along with a small ladle, and a covered dish. Belle uncovered it and found a tureen of steaming soup.

“Convenient,” she said with a nod of her head, and the note of admiration in her voice appeared to be sufficient for Rumplestiltskin. He watched as she ladled the soup into the bowl.

When she held it out to him, however, he made a face and waved it away.

“Not that one,” he said pettishly. “That’s too much.”

Belle leaned back, holding the bowl in her hands and knitting her brow in puzzlement.

“Which one, then?” she asked.

Rumplestiltskin made a noise – it could have been a cough, but Belle did not think so – and held his hand up again. With a flick, one of the blue-and-white teacups from downstairs appeared in his hand.

“This one,” Rumplestiltskin said, holding it out to her with an expectant look.

She hesitated, wondering if he had some sort of fever, and he gave the cup a light swing, as if to entice her to take it. Belle smiled and reached for it, placing a hand on the bed to balance herself.

A movement under the covers made her realize her hand was resting on one of his thighs. Even through the blanket she could feel the muscles tense. She stood back in a hurry, her face red, and scrutinized the cup to avoid his face.

It was the chipped cup, she realized. Belle frowned and looked up, forgetting her embarrassment momentarily.

“This one?” she said doubtfully, holding the cup so he could see the chip.

He nodded and said nothing. Belle waited for him to speak, but he continued to watch her in silence, so Belle shrugged and began to fill the cup with soup. It didn’t hold much. Belle did not question him, however, as she handed him the cup, seeing the look of contentment that settled on his face as he held the cup between his hands. She turned to move the tray and remembered the bowl she had already filled.

“What’s this for, then, if that’s what you wanted to use?” she asked.

He appeared to have been lost in thought, for he looked startled when she spoke, and regarded the bowl of soup with an expression of utter perplexity.

“For you,” Rumplestiltskin said blankly, as if it should be obvious.

“Oh,” Belle said. She felt a strange flutter in her stomach as she said, “Thank you.”

He ducked his head, staring into the cup.

“It’s only soup,” he said, his voice low and hoarse.

Belle beamed at that, but did not tease him. She took up the bowl and spoon, pretending not to notice the way his eyes followed her movements. He always seemed to do that when she was close.

There was a chair near the bed. Belle could have sworn it had been closer to the wardrobe a moment earlier, but did not comment. She settled into it rested the bowl in her lap.

They ate without speaking, the only sounds coming from the clink of the spoon on the bowl and Rumplestiltskin’s intermittent sipping. Belle found she did not mind the silence. There was something very comfortable about this room, though she could not say what.

She was musing on that subject, staring into her bowl as she swished the remains of her soup with her spoon when she heard him say, “Belle?”

“Mm?” she made a noise of acknowledgement as she looked up.

He was twirling the cup in his fingers, but when she glanced at him he held it out.

“Would you like any more?” she asked, rising from the chair. She placed the bowl on the tray and stood with her skirt brushing against the covers.

Rumplestiltskin shook his head. Belle took the cup, aware of how close their fingers came to touching before she pulled away.

“I’ll just take these to the kitchen, then,” she said, turning to put the cup on the tray.

He made an impatient jerk with his hand, and the tray and its contents vanished. Belle stared at where they had been, her fingers flexing around a cup that was no longer in her hand.

“Well, I…” Belle stammered, startled by the abrupt gesture. She hadn’t done anything wrong, had she? Belle gathered her courage and turned her face to his, bracing herself as she said, “If there’s nothing else, I’ll…”

She trailed off when she saw his expression. His brow was furrowed as if in deep contemplation, and his eyes were narrowed, but there was a twitch playing at his lips, like he was holding back some emotion.

“I…” Belle paused, watching him, but he said nothing. He only went on looking at her in that lost way of his.

"I can’t possibly leave you alone like this,” Belle said, deciding it for herself at that very moment. He didn’t even have his spinning wheel to distract him, she thought. He would drive himself mad.

She deposited herself back in the chair and raised her chin defiantly, daring him to say anything.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” Belle said briskly.

Rumplestiltskin merely stared at her, eyes wide, as if he’d never seen such a creature in his life. After a moment he appeared to feel self-conscious and looked away, fidgeting with his hands as he shifted in the bed.

“As you wish,” he replied, not looking at her.

An awkward silence descended. Belle realized she would have to find something to occupy herself, or the time would stretch itself unbearably. It would not do any good for Rumplestiltskin, either. From the way he was staring at his hands, he was far too aware of her presence to fall asleep any time soon.

An idea came to her abruptly.

“Do you have any books?” she asked.

Her voice had the effect of a rock through a window. Rumplestiltskin gave a start and looked at her, his eyes as wide as a frightened cat’s.

“Books?” he asked, puzzled.

Belle felt a rush of embarrassment course through her.

“I…I thought I might read to you. If you like,” she added. She ducked her head shyly, only to glance at him through her eyelashes.

Rumplestiltskin watched her, his eyes lingering a moment longer than she might have liked, for she felt her cheeks burning. It was a childish suggestion. Imagine telling the Dark One a bed time story!

Suddenly he looked away. Belle followed his gaze and saw a cloth-bound volume on the bedside table, though she had not seen one there before. Her curiosity overpowering any other feeling she might have had, Belle gently lifted the book from the table and cradled it reverently in her lap.

It looked old. Impossibly old – and worn, as if it had been handled many times by a less careful reader. The letters of the cover were faded beyond discerning, so Belle lifted the cover and gently fanned the pages in one hand.

Someone had written their name in the corner. The hand was a child’s, with letters of various sizes, and the name was not one she knew. It was difficult to make out the script, but she’d seen worse handwriting in her studies and could make out the letters.

“Baelfire,” she read aloud. She looked up at Rumplestiltskin and smiled. “That’s a nice name.”

He made no comment, only looked at her with that odd expression he wore sometimes, a careful mixture of calm and disinterest that might look like boredom, if not for his eyes. They were so sad. She wondered if he knew the child who had once owned the book, but this was not the time to ask. Belle shuffled lightly through the pages.

It occurred to her, as she did so, that a man who could have anything with a wave of a hand had little reason to trouble with servants when he was ill. Yet he had called for her so urgently. What had he wanted?

Belle glanced at him, watching wordlessly. Rumplestiltskin frowned.

“What is it?” he asked, his fingers twitching.

She smiled.

“Only wanted to make sure you were paying attention,” Belle assured him. Rumplestiltskin made a face and folded his hands over his stomach.

The book turned out to be a collection of stories. They were the usual sort, brave warriors going on adventures, slaying vicious beasts and the like. Belle found herself wondering if she would like to do that sort of thing. There had to be a beast small enough for her to face.

She read for some time, occasionally glancing up to see if her charge was still awake. He showed no signs of tiring at first, but gradually sank further and further into his pillows, his eyes narrowing in a way that was not at all threatening. What she liked best was the way his hands, knit together so tightly when she began, drifted apart by degrees until they rested on the covers, lacking the usual tension that marked their movements.

He was sound asleep by the time she was about to begin the last story, the tale of a knight under a terrible enchantment. Belle observed him for a few minutes to make sure he was really asleep. She watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. He seemed so peaceful as he was, she could not fully believe he was the terrible sorcerer who frightened everyone he came across. Sure, he looked different, but was that really so bad?

Belle sighed. She closed the book and rose from her seat. She was surprised to feel how tired she was. Tired, but not exhausted. There was something about this room, she thought, that made her feel so comfortable.  She was sure she could curl up and be asleep in a moment.

She returned the book to its place on the table. A thought occurred to her. Belle reached into her pocket and took out her handkerchief. He would not accept it when he was awake, but he could not stop her leaving it for him. She set it beside the book and turned to go.

Rumplestiltskin made a noise when she moved. Belle froze, afraid that he’d woken, and a long moment passed as she waited to see what would happen. But Rumplestiltskin remained asleep, and when she turned to look at him, he was resting just as peacefully as he had been before.

A lock of hair had fallen over his face sometime in the evening. Belle reached out and brushed it away. Doing so, she realized his hair was soft – so soft, she wanted to reach out with both hands and run her fingers through it.

She shook her head. Where had that sudden thought come from? Rumplestiltskin would hardly appreciate being woken that way, she was sure. And he was sick. He needed his rest.

Belle made to leave once more, but her eyes fell on the book. There had been one story left. Surely one story couldn’t hurt? It had been so long since she’d had a new book to read.

A glance at Rumplestiltskin told her he was still asleep, and would be so for some time. Giddy with excitement, Belle collected the book and went to the chair. She stifled a yawn as she cracked it open and was soon lost in the pages.

He found her in the morning, her legs curled under her in the chair, and it looked as if she had fallen asleep reading. The pages had slipped out of her grasp, but the cover remained open, showing the name written inside. It seemed oddly perfect, Belle and Baelfire resting together.


End file.
